


Blinding Lights Will Lead Us Home

by moriartywearsafez



Category: Flight of the Conchords (TV)
Genre: M/M, mention of past rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 17:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriartywearsafez/pseuds/moriartywearsafez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you think,” Jemaine stops and struggles to come up with the correct words, “do you ever feel that maybe you’ve missed something important that’s been in front of you for a very long time?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blinding Lights Will Lead Us Home

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for S1 ep: Girlfriends. The fic takes place directly after the episode.  
> Reposted from my old livejournal.

_After all, you’re my wonderwall_

 

i.

Bret doesn’t move when the door creaks back open and Jemaine’s head appears around the corner, “Bret,” he says slowly, “you’ve got all your clothes on,” regarding his friend carefully for a moment he shuffles back into the doorway.

Blinking the water away from his eyes he lifts his head to look at the taller man hovering anxiously with one hand on the doorknob and the other still clutching his toothbrush as he solemnly watches Bret.

“I thought of it on my way out,” Jemaine continues with a jerk of the brush and a quick glance over his shoulder, “when I was grumbling about how I was here first,” trailing off he falls silent as Bret’s chin drops to his knees once more.

Moving all the way into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him Jemaine shifts from foot to foot before trying again, “You know, Bret, people don’t shower with their clothes on usually. Or sitting down. In fact that’s not a shower at all. That’s a bath,”

Bret doesn’t reply. Instead he seems busy watching the water splashing against his jeans and Jemaine wonders how much water he’d had to soak up before he turned into some kind of sad little Bret puddle.

“Did something happen, Bret?”

The sound of plastic hitting porcelain is too loud and Jemaine cringes just a bit when he puts his toothbrush down before toeing out of his shoes. Bret’s shoulder is warm and solid beneath his hand when he pushes against it. Without looking up the smaller man turns and slides towards the faucet so that he is sitting with his back against the side of the tub and there is room for Jemaine to take a seat beside him.

“Do you want to talk about it maybe?”

Jemaine is almost afraid that Bret hadn’t heard him and wonders if his ears have maybe filled up with water thus messing with his hearing somehow. Just as he’s going to repeat himself, however, Bret shuffles a little bit closer until their sides are touching and their arms are pressed together before whispering, “No,”

He nods then because he’s not really sure what else to do. After a few minutes he feels Bret shifting and his head drops slowly down to rest on Jemaine’s shoulder.

“Erhm,” the word that finds its way out of his throat is somewhat less of a word and somewhat more of a strangled sound and he wants to ask if this is a bit gay, because he thinks that it might be, but has the distinct feeling that the question wouldn’t be the most appreciated of questions at this time so he closes his mouth and clears his throat awkwardly.

His glasses are covered in mist from the shower spray but he’s still close enough that when he glances down he can see the top of Bret’s head without it being blurry. His hair is plastered down and Jemaine wonders briefly if running his fingers through it (just to get it out of Bret’s face) would make him feel any better.

But as Bret’s hand tentatively finds its way to his, and their fingers clasp, Jemaine gives up on thinking all together and lets his cheek rest against wet curls.

When the water turns icy he reaches across their bodies with his free hand and turns off the faucet, but neither of them moves to leave the tub as the remaining water trickles down the drain.

ii.

“So, that’s what happened,” Bret sighs as he hunches down inside of his robe and Jemaine wishes, not for the first time, that they could afford thicker ones, “She made me get up on the metal table thing and then she,” gesturing vaguely and not meeting Jemaine’s eyes he continues, “did stuff to me,”

Jemaine makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, and nods as he sets his mug of tea on the table, “Yes. Well, Bret, it sounds to me like she had sex on you,”

Bret glances up from his own mug with wide eyes, “Really?”

Clearing his throat Jemaine nods again, “Yes,”

“Yeah,” the words are soft and contemplative as Bret averts his gaze to the table once more, “yeah, well that does sound about right,”

“Are you going to be okay?” Jemaine asks playing with the handle on his cup, “I mean, you know, about everything?”

As Bret scrubs a hand across his face he gives his friend a tired, half smile, “Yeah, I’ll be fine,”

Jemaine’s not entirely sure he believes him but he nods silently and takes another sip of tea while watching Bret traces lines on the tabletop. 

“Actually,” He looks up, eyebrows rising and glasses fogging just slightly from the steam coming from his cup, as Bret speaks, “I think I might just go to bed. I’m kind of tired,”

They stand at the same time and Jemaine huffs out an awkward laugh, “Okay, well. Do you need me to,” he shoves a hand into the pocket of his own robe before finishing on a slight exhale, “get you anything? Do you need to be tucked in?” And he doesn’t know why he said that last part. Of course he doesn’t need to be tucked in but it was kind of like word vomit. It just spilled out before he could stop it. 

But his friend just shoots him another half smile and shakes his head before heading towards the bedroom leaving Jemaine to clean up the half empty cups.

iii.

It’s not that Bret lied, per say, about being okay with everything. It’s just that Jemaine thinks he might not have been telling the entire truth. He knows Bret better than anyone and after spending days walking at a snail’s pace because Bret refuses to walk faster, and having multiple band practices that lack enthusiasm and drive, along with conversations that are kept to a three word minimum as well as being one-sided he’s pretty sure that Bret is not okay.

It’s confirmed the night he wakes up with a start around three in the morning.

Pushing his glasses up on his nose wearily his eyes automatically slam shut against everything coming into sharp focus at once. Still unsure of what had woken him he glances around the room to discover Bret missing from his bed. 

Sighing heavily as he runs a hand through his hair he considers just going back to bed and forgetting about it, but he knows he can’t do that. Bret is missing and Jemaine feels almost obligated to go find him. After a long internal argument with himself he finally swings his legs around and climbs to his feet.

“Bret?” Padding into the living room he shivers against the cold and whispers again, “Bret, where are you?” There’s no real reason for him to be whispering since no one is sleeping, but his voice is hoarse from not being used, and in the darkness it only seems appropriate.

Bret’s voice cuts through the stillness like a knife as he doesn’t bother to whisper at all, “I just thought it would be different,”

Jemaine jumps, successfully knocking his shin against the coffee table. With a groan he clutches his leg and collapses on the sofa next to his friend, “Geez, Bret! You can’t just sneak up on people like that!” He can just make out the smaller man’s profile in the dim light from the streetlamps as he exclaims, “I could have been killed!” 

As his friend turns to look at him his face because a darkened shape once more, “Sorry,” he says, “but I did think things would be different,”

Jemaine is still trying to cope with the pain radiating through his leg and he scrunches up his nose and squeezes his eyes shut before asking, “Different how?” He doesn’t need to ask what Bret’s talking about.

The other man is motionless beside him when he answers, “I don’t know,” with a sigh he tilts his head and lets it rest against the back of the couch, “I just wanted it to be special,”

“So, you’re not okay then,” When he opens his eyes Jemaine immediately wishes that he hadn’t. Bret looks so small and broken sitting there with the shadows swallowing him up and Jemaine’s chest feels like it’s caught in a vice as his heart stutters and skips a beat. He opens his mouth to say something else, but nothing comes and he just manages to look like a fish gasping for air.

“No,” Shaking his head slightly he whispers, “No, I guess not,”

Swallowing thickly, he opens his arms and finally manages a croaked, “Bret,”

Bret lolls his head to the side and gives him a quick, flash of a smile before his perpetual frown returns, “Isn’t that a bit gay?” he questions and Jemaine thinks that it might be, but he’s also not sure how much longer he can sit there with his best friend looking like a kicked puppy without his heart breaking.

“Yeah, maybe a bit,” he answers with a straight face and his arms still outstretched.

Huffing out a small laugh Bret moves forward into his embrace, and settles with his fingers curled into his friend’s shirt and his head resting against his shoulder.

Outside a car alarm goes off, it’s shriek ripping through the streets, but inside stays still as Jemaine carefully runs his fingers through Bret’s hair and ignores the clenching feeling in his gut.

iv. 

Whenever Jemaine tries to think of something to help his friend he tends to come up empty-handed. Coming up with ideas about things is Bret’s area of expertise not his but seeing as how Bret is kind of out of commission right now the task has fallen upon his shoulders and he’s pretty sure that he’s failing miserably.

Every time he thinks that he has something great, an idea that is better than all his others, Bret gives him the same half smile that never reaches his eyes, or lights up his face, or spreads from ear to ear. None of his ideas have produced a smile with all of the things Jemaine loves about Bret’s smiles and he feels like he’s just going around in one big circle and he’s beginning to think that maybe there isn’t anything that he can do.

But part of him, most of him, refuses to believe that. There’s always something he can do when it comes to his friend. There is a light at the end of this tunnel that Bret is going down. He knows that there is. The path is just a crooked one, and it’s twisted so that the end is hidden. He doesn’t know how to point Bret in the right direction if he can’t even see it himself.

He thinks that maybe if they walked together they might be able to find it, and even if they couldn’t at least Bret wouldn’t be alone anymore. Jemaine would be there too, and they would be together like they always are.

But he doesn’t know how to explain this to Bret.

v.

Jemaine dreams of Bret about a week after the Lisa incident and two days after his realization.

They’re riding on a bus, which is weird because they never ride the bus, and it’s packed with people that he can’t quite make out. They’re all blurred and discolored. Feeling uneasy he reaches over to the seat beside him to make sure Bret is still there, but his fingertips meet an empty bus seat.

“Bret?”

There’s a flash of color, and Jemaine jerks around to look out the window. Bret’s walking along the side of the road with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, his head down, and Jemaine thinks, with a start, that he looks a bit faded around the edges.

As soon as the bus lurches to a stop Jemaine is down the steps and on the sidewalk scanning the crowd for his friend. 

“Bret?” He calls out again when he spots the smaller man still walking a little ways a way. Bret doesn’t turn around and there’s a slow but steady build of panic curling in his gut as he calls louder, “Bret!”

Trying his best to hurry, but getting caught up in the mass of gray, sluggish people, he has this urgent feeling that if he doesn’t catch up to Bret soon he’ll never get to see him again.

“Bret, stop. Please stop,”

Finally he turns, smiling one of his wide, radiant smiles, and beckons Jemaine forward with the curl of a finger as he heads across the street to a nearby park.

Jemaine thinks he can hear laughter. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from but he can see Bret sitting on a park bench with his guitar, his head bent in concentration, and Jemaine can see the trees behind him. No, he can see them through him.

As he’s moving to cross the street someone passes in front of him. He trips, stumbles, and when he rights himself Bret is gone. It’s raining, and he doesn’t know when that started, but he can’t see because his glasses are streaked and he turns every which way he can think of but Bret is no where to be seen.

He’s gone.

Jemaine wakes with a gasp, drenched in a cold sweat, and immediately swivels to check the other bed. Bret is sleeping soundly with one arm flung over his head, the other resting on his stomach, and Jemaine feels a sharp pang of relief as he struggles to be able to breathe again.

Turning on his side, he watches the gentle rise and fall of Bret’s chest and it’s a long time before he’s able to get back to sleep.

vi.

“Bret,” he starts off when a commercial comes on, “I had quite a strange dream last night,”

“Oh yeah?” Bret turns to look at him, “What about?”

Picking at a stray thread on his shirt Jemaine refuses to look up as he answers, “Oh, you know. Normal things,”

“What was so strange about it if it was normal things?” He knocks his knee against Jemaine’s lightly, and Jemaine’s eyes slide closed for a moment.

They’re sitting close enough on the couch that Bret’s thigh is pressed warm against his, and Jemaine can almost feel every breath he takes. Each time Jemaine moves just a little bit their shoulders bump, and their fingers brush.

“You and I were on a bus,” he feels his cheeks flush, and he drops his chin to his chest as Bret watches him expectantly, “but you weren’t on the bus,”

Bret frowns, eyebrows creasing, “Where was I if I wasn’t on the bus with you?”

“You were off of the bus. Outside of the bus,” 

“Well, what was I doing outside of the bus if we were supposed to be on the bus?”

“I don’t know, Bret!” Jemaine almost shouts, “You just weren’t on the bus when you were supposed to be,”

The smaller man tilts his head slightly and leans back against the couch, “What happened after that?”

“Never mind. Forget I said anything about it,” Bret looks like he’s going to say something so Jemaine gets to his feet quickly and pushes through the barrier made by his friend’s legs as he says, “I think I might take a walk,”

“In the rain?” Bret raises an eyebrow as he glances out the window.

Jemaine stares at him for a fraction of a second before answering as calmly as he can, “Yes. In the rain,”

With a shrug the other man returns his gaze to the television, “Well, take an umbrella at least,”

vii.

A few days later they go for a walk because Bret claims that Jemaine is hovering over him like a mother hawk and he can’t take it anymore. The sun is shining, and the birds are singing, and it feels like the kind of day where one should take a walk is another excuse Bret uses to get out of the house. Jemaine goes partly because he doesn’t want to let the other man out of his sight, and mostly because he wants some ice cream.

Their fingers brush when Jemaine hands over the ice cream cone and he flinches, almost dropping it, before moving away to get his own.

“Are you okay?” Bret raises an eyebrow at him curiously, and Jemaine coughs.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” he takes his own cone and thanks the vendor, “It must have been because I touched the metal on the cart. Got an electric shock,” with a shrug he takes a bite of ice cream and hopes Bret won’t ask any follow up questions.

His friend seems pacified with his answer, however, as he begins to lick at his own treat. “Do you want to go to the park maybe?” He suggests with a sideways glance and Jemaine blanches.

“Why would you want to go to the park?”

“Well, I like the park. Lots to see and do there,”

“Oh, well. Okay,” Jemaine reluctantly concedes, “Just don’t,” he stops and shakes his head.

“Don’t what?”

“Nothing,”

Bret shrugs as they head across the street and into the park and Jemaine drops onto the first park bench that he sees.

“I’m gonna sit here for a bit,” he explains as the smaller man wanders over to a group of flowers.

Sitting on the bench he watches Bret licking ice cream off his fingers, and has this nagging feeling that whatever it is he’s missing is right there. Just then the clouds move, and the sun comes out blinding him and Bret is blurred from his vision. Panic whips through him and he staggers to his feet as he calls, “Bret,” and when Bret doesn’t answer he lurches over to where he thinks his friend was standing as he tries to blink the sun out of his eyes.

The other man finishes feeding a stray dog the last part of his ice cream cone and straightens, “Are you alright, man?” he asks when he finds Jemaine bouncing on the balls of his feet anxiously.

Jemaine finally gets the spots out of his eyes and looks over at him. And he’s just there. Just Bret. Sharp as crystal. And Jemaine sees him.

“I thought, maybe, you were going to disappear,” with a sheepish shrug he averts his eyes and stares down at the tops of his shoes as he resists the urge to reach out and hug him.

“Why would I disappear?”

“I don’t know, Bret,” he says exasperated, “I just thought you might is all,”

Moving in closer their fingers brush once, and then again as they start walking and then Jemaine reaches out with his pinky and catches up Bret’s. Bret doesn’t say anything, though, and Jemaine lets go of the breath he was holding when he feels the other man’s pinky curling around his.

viii.

He knows now. At least, he thinks he knows now what will make Bret feel better.

“Are you still upset about Lisa?” Jemaine asks as they’re sitting on the couch together.

Bret shoots him a funny look, “No?” It comes out more as a question, “I haven’t thought about her much lately,” Pausing he looks over at him with a puzzled expression, “Should I still be upset about Lisa?”

Jemaine muses on this for a few moments before answering him slowly, “No, I don’t think you should still be upset about Lisa. I just thought you might be,”

Nodding Bret turns to face the TV again.

“Bret,”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat but doesn’t take his gaze from the television.

“Do you think,” Jemaine stops and struggles to come up with the correct words, “do you ever feel that maybe you’ve missed something important that’s been in front of you for a very long time?”

Bret makes another distracted sound before answering, “No. Don’t think so,”

“I see,” Jemaine slouches against the couch and they watch the TV for a few more minutes until he’s turning toward his friend again going, “Bret. Hey, Bret,” softly.

This time when Bret turns to look over at him Jemaine reaches out to touch his face. Bret’s eyes immediately fall shut and he leans, just slightly, towards Jemaine’s hand. He takes a moment to take in the way Bret’s lashes are fanned out across his cheeks, and the way his breath is coming in short pulls, before moving in closer.

His eyes slide shut with the first tentative brush of their lips.

It’s just pressure at first, but then Bret makes a soft sound, or maybe it was him, and Jemaine inches even closer as his hand comes up to cup the back of the smaller man’s head and his other hand goes down to rest against his thigh. 

He can feel Bret opening up beneath his. His mouthing opening just slightly, just enough to turn the kiss into something just a bit deeper than it had been, his fingers coming up to cling to Jemaine’s shirt.

And then Bret is pulling away with a start. Pulling away from Jemaine and reeling backwards on the couch. His cheeks are tinged red, and his fingers are still clutching at Jemaine’s shirt as he stares at him.

Jemaine doesn’t know what to say, so he stares down at the cushion between them until he feels the couch give as Bret gets up.

He flinches when the front door clicks shut.

ix. 

Jemaine doesn’t move when the door creaks open and Bret’s head appears around the corner, “Hey,” he says softly before coming fully into the room and slowly closing the door behind him, “You’ve got all your clothes on,”

Playing with the bottom of his pajama pants Jemaine doesn’t reply opting instead to rest his chin on his knees and keep his gaze resolutely away from Bret’s figure.

There’s the slight sound of rustling clothes as Bret toes out of his shoes and then he’s lowering himself into the tub beside Jemaine, “You know, showers always seem to work better when the water is on,”

“I didn’t want to get wet,” Jemaine murmurs, “just wanted to sit.”

Their sides are touching and their arms are pressed together and Jemaine can’t help but feel some of the tension drain out of his body as Bret’s thumb makes reassuring circles against the side of his hand. After a few minutes he shifts, trying to move into a space closer to Bret that doesn’t exist, and lets his head drop down to rest against the other man’s shoulder.

Bret exhales slowly and presses a kiss to the top of his head and they sit in silence listening to the occasional drip from the leaky faucet.


End file.
